The Old House (P1/2)

She saw a nickle drop from a tweed pocket. She saw it bounce two times.
There was no third; it landed. She stopped and stared.
A nickle from not this land, but a far away one. It was strange.
It was old, not fragile, but old. It had seen life, freed and imprisoned.
She picked it up, looked at it and put it down again. It was not her nickle.
It was a nickle, older than her long gone grandfather. The one she missed.

She arrived. Opened the door with her broken key. Used and turned.
The smell of a house left alone for years. Closed. Shut. A familiar scent.
The broken banister beside the collapsed stairs leading to the attic.
The air, as if afraid, fled from the newcomer,
the dust, startled, jumped and panicked.
"What a sad scene", she thought.

Along the hallway there were three doors. All of which guarded a room.
They resisted when she tried to enter. They wanted to jam, wanted to break.
She was persistent to get what she came for. She had a key in her purse.
That key, that seemed like a good hundred years old, was given to her
back when she used to go visit the house and the grandparents who lived there.

She entered the first room. She had to push the resistant door open with her shoulder.
The door squeaked and sighed when it gave in to let her enter. The door was unfortunate,
only guarding a single, tall closet with its doors missing and a dusty mattress. The window didnt want to help her see, but no amount of dust could stop her. Her steps made the floor
answer to the doors whining. She saw the closet was empty, but wanted to make sure.
The house was told to trick simple minds. And she remembered.

She had stayed over for the night. She had slept behind the second door.
She had been woken up minutes after midnight by, what at the time, sounded like a scream. It wasnt a scream.
The house didnt, and to this date doesnt, like us. Us who make noise and break the peace. The silence.
Men who shout and spit, women who scream and laugh. The doors, floors, ceilings and walls -
they dont like noise. And she remembered.

But still she entered, because she had to. She had to find out what the lock was hiding. The lock that, with her key, could be unlocked.

She ignored the second door for now. Memories told her to ignore it and take the next one. The third door.

The third door was not so far away from its inevitable defeat. She didnt have to open it, in the meaning of the word "open". She just had to gently touch it, and it opened and came crashing down onto the floor, waking the dust to its frightened dance. Like a dying old relative who needs a small push to reveal secrets on her deathbed. Dying soul who feels like there is nothing to lose, nothing to gain. It doesnt matter at that point. "Just give it to her, defy the words you said, dont mind what you swore."

As she entered the slightly larger room, she could feel the air she breathed get friendlier. This was the third room. The room where once songs were sang, dances were danced and good times were had. The third room was the friendliest of the three. The room had seen what we had to offer, the good and the bad. And it decided to accept us. Accept us as we are; eventually violent, greedy, dirty creatures whose heads are occupied by a single thought and a single thought only - "more".

But it was a nice room all in all.

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